Silence
by PikaCheeka
Summary: Madara enjoys the taste and feel of Hashirama's blood, and not just in battle. (HashiMada/MadaHashi)


A/N – I wrote this fic a few months ago and posted it on my tumblr (so if anything seems outdated, that's why). It's one of…many dark/sadomasochistic fics I have of these two, though for various reasons I have been hesitant to post them. This one received more-positive-than-expected feedback on tumblr, and now, after 3 months, I figure that canon is sufficiently dark enough for me to be a little more open about these kinds of fics, so I decided to post it here on FFN. You might be able to expect more like this from me. Maybe not though. We'll see!

Pairing is obviously HashiMada, though Hashirama is the passive one, if that makes any sense. It's a darkfic, so the sex is pretty aggressive and dubcon-esque. Written some time ago for Addy, who gave me a delicious fanart as a prompt. Rated M for sex, violence, asphyxiation, bloodplay, knifeplay, dangerous fetishes, Madara, etc etc…

**Silence**

**By PikaCheeka**

He couldn't heal himself with the blade straight through the palm of his hand, though his chakra was already seeking to at least slow the bleeding, heal the small cuts in his fingers where he had frantically grabbed the sword.

"Don't." Madara snapped, abruptly twisting the blade, causing the other man to intake air sharply through his teeth and flinch as it ripped into his hands anew. The weight on his abdomen shifted as Madara leaned over, studying his face a moment before kissing his forehead softly. The cruelty of the gesture, the perverse gentleness of it, was not lost on Hashirama as he lay in a pool of his own blood.

He couldn't remember when things had started to go wrong in this supposedly friendly spar, couldn't remember much of the fight at all. Madara rarely used his genjutsu on him when they fought like this, an unspoken agreement that at least on Konoha grounds, they would keep their most deadly jutsu to themselves. Tsukiyomi and poisons were used in informal fights, sometimes even in bed, but Madara had broken the rules in a fight like this. Hashirama should have been on his guard more. His partner had been increasingly agitated over the last few months, demanding fights and attention, even sex, at every turn. He spent half his days in the Hokage office with Hashirama, half his nights wide awake in his house and watching him sleep. The other days he was gone, patrolling the edges of the village and likely sabotaging whatever relations Konoha attempted to build. At least, that was what the Senju suspected, though he hated to admit it or even act on it. In a strange way, it was exhilarating, knowing he could spark such anxiety and anger in the Uchiha.

But this was an unprecedented level of brutality, the closest Madara had ever come to killing him, and it was clear from his eyes, from the casual grinding of his hips, how aroused he was. It had been stupid not to wear armor. The genjutsu he could not defend against, but the blow to his ribs could have been avoided at the very least. They'd broken one another's bones before, even casually, but Madara was different this time; there was that crazed, predatory glint in his eye that was rarely so visible any longer.

Hashirama suddenly remembered an incident from nearly a decade ago, when they were in that awkward stage between youth and men. He had forgotten it, driven it from his mind as it had disturbed him so greatly at the time. They had been fighting alone, viciously and with an intent to not only kill but to cruelly maim beforehand. That, too, was something he never cared to dwell on as soon as those battles ended. But that fight had been different, because in the heat of the moment Madara's sharingan suddenly flickered and he stumbled. It was only for a moment, and Hashirama could have believed it was nothing but an ordinary slip of one battle-exhausted, were it not for the look on his face. A confused rictus grin and a cloudy glaze over his grey eyes before he abruptly met the Senju's stare, and Hashirama saw in that moment that though he was the stronger of the two, he was, and would ever be, hunted.

"That was the first time I ever climaxed, you know." Madara murmured, tracing a finger gently down the older man's jaw. "I tried before, with my hands, but it never worked. I still have trouble."

Hashirama found himself wanting to say he knew this. They'd been fucking for years, and Madara's infrequent, but troubling enough, inability to finish what had been started had resulted in just as many frustrations as it had shows of indifference. And all the nights when he did succeed, but took so long that Hashirama grew anxious… Still, something unnerved him. Why did Madara know what he had remembered?

"Ah." Madara's gloved finger touched his lips and he stopped. "I think about it every time we fight. But…" he slowly ran his finger up his cheekbone then. "It's cute how much you care." The word sounded ugly, even to himself. "You really worked so hard to teach me." Those nights haunted him still, when Hashirama had come to him, casually slid under the covers behind him, always behind him, and stroked him to completion. Madara had bore it, biting back his fear of having someone at his back, silently despising himself for enjoying those arms around him. Despite his occasional climax and the rare times when Hashirama had pushed into him as he touched him, there had never been anything sexual about those nights. They had always passed in some strange, liquid contentment.

It was another reason to hate Hashirama. He leaned back and sighed then, brushing his hair out of his face and leaving a smear of blood on his forehead. This excited him far more than whatever went on in those eerily intimate moments, which only made something in him hurt in a way he did not like. He knew that people were warning the Senju against him, knew the whispers of his violence, and he knew that they did not know Hashirama as he did. They didn't know of all of the times he had broken his bones, used his mokuton against him in private, sometimes in the most intimate of ways, until he screamed. No. Hashirama had a reputation to uphold, and nobody could know how easy it was to bring out his inherent rage. That was the man that excited him, the one who fed him such exquisite physical pain and awoke such bloodlust that he didn't have to think about those other nights. He rocked against him a few times, relishing in the discomfort of his pants and the way the other man flinched when he leaned too far back over his crotch.

"You don't pay as much attention to me anymore as you should. I even managed to defeat you here because of it." He lazily traced circles over Hashirama's blood-slicked abdomen as he spoke before snaking his hand down to touch him through his pants.

A silent glare. Blood on his eyelashes from a wound on his forehead.

And then Madara was digging into his flesh, his fingers probing deeper and deeper into the wound at his side, and Hashirama saw sparks behind his eyes. He couldn't heal himself, not with Madara's fingers there, not with his eager willingness to mutilate him further at the slightest hint of healing chakra. His other hand hadn't moved from his crotch, rubbing furiously against his dick and disorienting him with the pleasure mounting behind the pain.

"You enjoy this as much as I do, don't you." It wasn't a question. "Don't worry. I'll let you in, soon."

Bucking his hips up seemed to be the correct response, resulting in Madara's grin widening and his fingers withdrawing from the wound. "You're delaying, still?" Hashirama almost pushed him further, but he bit his lip and fell silent, vaguely irritated that Madara's other hand had also moved away from him. This wouldn't be the first time they'd had sex on the battlefield, and he knew from experience that any stalling on the other man's part came more from anxiety than sadism. Even bloodied and in control of the situation, he never knew quite what to do.

"What are you implying?" The sharpness in his tone was enough to show that he had understood that silence. But his hands moved swiftly as he leaned forward, a kunai cutting into Hashirama's naval as he carelessly tore the front of his pants open. Then he paused, licked the knife, and lay it carefully on the other man's chest. For the first time since he'd climbed on top of him, he was aware of his own wounds in any real specificity. He carefully pulled his arm behind his back, shuddering at the cracking sound it made, his eyes rolling back a moment and a groan escaping him that was not entirely one of pain. Not quite broken. Only Hashirama could hurt him like this, could beat and break and mark him like this. When these fights were over, he let himself be healed, but he never let himself be healed enough to take away his scars. He knew they haunted Hashirama, on those ugly nights of soft murmurs and gentle hands, when he found himself unable to bite his fingers and crush his throat; at least then he reveled in this guilt.

He sighed then, struggling to hitch up his robe with his damaged arm before giving up and using both, slipping his pants down and sitting on his stomach. Hashirama's blood was slick beneath him, a strange feeling to have someone else's blood on his ass. He touched himself absently, looking away from the Senju's piercing eyes. His erection was painful with heat and he knew he'd be able to come this time, so easy and natural after these fights.

"Are you actually going to do it?" Hashirama finally spoke, unable to ignore his own need any longer. He could smell Madara's blood mingling with his own now, and the feel of his nakedness, his thighs at once so tight and soft, against him was a torment. When was the last time they'd fucked like this? Too long ago. He'd taken the other man from behind, slamming his face into the ground, choking him with his mokuton, making him scream in rage… It had been after another botched mission, another day where Madara purposefully killed an emissary and shrugged it off as an accident with a wicked smile in his eyes before he beckoned him outside. It had been no punishment; the only way to punish Madara was with kindness. Ignoring him was not an option; Hashirama knew he could never ignore him, knew he was hopelessly in love, addicted even, and so he turned to his only option left.

The knife scraping across his chest snapped him out of it. "How much does it bleed?" He didn't wait for an answer, his hand moving too fast for Hashirama to register what he was even talking about before he uttered a soft expletive. "Oh. A lot."

The older man couldn't accept for a moment that Madara had actually just cut his own member just to see what would happen, and then he was twisting, suddenly eager to have him gone, his arousal be damned. His madness was too much for him today. He'd wait for another time, when he was able to have control over the situation. But Madara was solid, his knees a vice grip over his partner's waist. "It doesn't hurt," he snapped crossly. "I just did a little." Even as he spoke, he slowly slid the kunai down behind him, turning slightly to see.

Hashirama grit his teeth. When did Madara get like this? Perhaps he himself had played the game too far, letting their sex grow more and more aggressive, enjoying it too much to pull back and realize where they were going. It was too late now though. Madara no longer saw the difference between pain and pleasure, at least not where Hashirama was concerned. Only rarely now, when Madara was extremely angry, could Hashirama hit him without this effect. And so he silently bore it, flinching slightly when the knife nicked his member, watching as Madara studied the knife a moment before throwing it over his shoulder, because perhaps he had done this to the Uchiha.

"Hn." Madara hummed a moment, rocking his hips a few times, tugging and bunching his shirt up by his chest with one hand, an old habit of his when he was anxious and aroused. It had taken Hashirama some time to learn how sensitive his nipples were, how the sudden tightening of fabric over them pleased him, and how easy it was to excite him simply by rubbing his chest. This was the Madara he knew, so aggressive and sure of himself up until the very moment of initiation, where he always faltered.

He moved then, fumbled a moment, leaning heavily on the sword, panting softly as he tried to align himself with the other man's arousal. Dizziness was setting in behind his eyes, a possible concussion from the fight that he could only ignore for so long, but long enough to do this. There was always time for this, he thought as he sat down, rocking backward as he impaled himself with a stifled bark. The pain was exquisite, shooting up his spine and exploding in the back of his skull, sending a surge of chakra and adrenaline through his body. He knew that the other man was bleeding inside of him, and the thought made his own erection even more painful. He had to adjust first; he despised having to adjust, but despite his attraction to this torment Hashirama's body brought upon him, he couldn't bear it when they fucked immediately. Gnawing on his free hand, he half-wondered at times if he even liked sex, though the intimacy of the moment always drove the idea from his mind. How else could he be so close to the other man? Silently grateful that Hashirama hadn't moved against him, he let his eyes shutter closed a moment.

But Hashirama only watched him, Madara with his mouth too wide and his eyes too sunken. He was at once ugly and beautiful, an ethereal monster, and Hashirama knew that he was the only one that had seen every side of him now. Madara fought everyone, had even vaguely enjoyed a fight or two with another, but the Senju knew that he was the only one he was always coming back to. It was over a decade between when they first met and when they first had sex, but they had always known in those years what was to come. Moving into adulthood had been a surreal passage, knowing in every moment that the demon who terrorized much of the shinobi world would break for him. He found himself desperately wanting to touch his face, again map those expressions he knew so well now. The pressure was building though, Madara's muscles contracting around him, and it wasn't long before he impatiently thrust upwards. It was all he could do. He couldn't grab him, couldn't dig his nails into those scarred and bony hips he knew so well to better fuck him; this was Madara's game now.

The movement startling him, Madara impulsively grabbed Hashirama around the throat with enough pressure to bruise but not to kill. He moved then, lifting himself up and pushing back hard again, his pace uneven and his angle poor. There was no need for either to pretend that he knew what he was doing, though it frustrated him at times, knowing that Hashirama knew so much of sex and he so little. The thought suddenly angered him, and instead of turning to his own needs, his erection now more painful than before, he tightened his fingers around the other man's throat.

"If only I could kill you."

Hashirama saw blackness a moment before he was able to jerk his head to the side, loosening his grip enough for him to clear his head, gasp out a few words, "You could right now." He could overpower him here if he was really forced to, but there was something so strangely alluring about dying now, buried to the hilt in Madara, that he couldn't help but taunt him. His tight warmth was intoxicating, his fingers loosening slightly around his throat as he picked up the pace.

There was no answer Madara could have given though. He could not make excuses, nor did he care to continue the conversation. He was not one for multi-tasking, and within seconds he had released his hold on his partner's throat, his hand moving to twist the fabric of his shirt for the briefest of moments before finally grabbing his own dick, angling himself low over the other man's body so that he could crush himself between their blood-slicked stomachs.

He finally released his grip on the sword only moments before coming to tug harshly at the Senju's hair, claw at his exposed throat a moment, and then with the return of his perverse gentleness, touch his cheek. It was always like this, a confused affection taking over him as his muscles spasmed and his balls tightened before he climaxed with a stifled cry. His partner followed shortly after, no longer sitting back and instead aggressively bucking up into him.

The sex was over quickly by Madara's standards, reminding Hashirama again how much easier it was for Madara to climax when he was in pain, when he was causing pain to others. The younger man slumped against him, gasping as he struggled to come down, and weakly pulled the sword out of Hashirama's hands. It took him several tries before he was able to, and when he had succeeded he let it fall and pressed his face against the Senju's bruised neck as if embarrassed.

"You have a concussion." Soft words spoken as Hashirama pushed the hair back from his face. His hands were already healed, covered in blood but otherwise unmarred.

Madara couldn't find it in himself to protest when he felt the gentle chakra, so unlike what he had only moments ago felt inside of him, flow through his head. He desperately wanted to tell him to heal nothing else, but the words evaded him.

They weren't needed. Hashirama didn't. He only lay there quietly, his hands resting on his shoulders, and Madara found himself wishing then that he would try to heal him, that he'd misunderstand him, argue with him, instead of merely holding onto him in this contented silence.

Because this silence was the only pain he could not bear.


End file.
